


Everybody's Business

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Brotp, Developing Friendships, Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude between all the fluff and mutual pining, in which Varric confronts Dorian about his concerns regarding the Inquisitor's infatuation. (Inquisitor Adaar is mentioned, but does not appear in this one).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody's Business

Dorian squints at the wine bottle's label in the dim cellar torchlight. "Hmm, perhaps." He dusts off the bottle and sets it aside, then checks the label of the next. "Ugh, definitely not." That one returns to the rack.

He hears the approaching footsteps, of course. Impossible not to, in the echoing stone chambers of Skyhold’s cellar. So he's not surprised when a figure turns a corner. Short and stocky, walking with a casual confidence. Varric.

"Thought I might find you down here, when you weren’t in the library," the dwarf says amicably as he approaches. He comes to a stop beside Dorian, his hand hovering in front of the wine rack for a moment, tracing along the bottles. Unerringly, he pinpoints a particular bottle, pulls it from the rack. "This one." He hands it to Dorian without ceremony.

A quick glance at the label causes Dorian to raise an eyebrow. "Impeccable choice," he admits grudgingly.

"Surprised?"

"A bit. Generally, I thought dwarves preferred stronger spirits?"

"And do something expected? Nah," Varric admits with a grin. "Besides, any businessman worth his salt should be able to tell the good booze from the swill. Makes business proceedings pass a lot more smoothly."

Dorian has to chuckle at that. For a few long seconds, he glances from the bottle to Varric, then back again. "And you knew exactly where it was. You’ve been down here before.”

“Now why would I go and admit to something like that?” the dwarf’s voice is heavy with sarcasm, his eyes twinkling as he grins.

“So. I take it that you're not here to tattle to the advisors that the thieving Tevinter is stealing the finest wines from their stores?"

Varric snorts. "We've got so many Orlesian lordlings trying to curry favor with the Inquisition, soon enough we'll be wading in gifts of booze faster than Cabot can pour it."

Dorian clucks his tongue. "But you'll miss the opportunity to make me look like a properly sinister villain," he teases, setting the good bottle aside to return the ones he’d pulled as potential selections.

The dwarf smiles. "Oh, I'd make you sound truly diabolical, too. Let's see," Varric scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Ah yes. It was the night of the Inquisition’s most delicate negotiation. The Ambassador had ensured everything would go as smoothly as possible, until... no! Gasp! The delegate’s favorite vintage, the one that would ensure peace and harmony for all mankind forever, was missing! The wicked mage had deliberately sabotaged the negotiations that would have saved the world. His vile act brought down the entire Inquisition." He smirks. "How’s that sound? I'd give you a sinister laugh, too. Fits with the whole ‘evil magister’ image."

"Altus, not magister," Dorian corrects, out of habit, but he smiles softly as he says it. "Just make sure to mention how devilishly handsome I look while destroying the Inquisition from within, would you?"

"Of course. It only makes the story better, you know." Varric picks up the bottle he'd selected. "But you know that I didn’t seek you out just for story fodder." He holds up the wine. "Care to share a drink and chat?"

Dorian raises an eyebrow as he replaces the last bottle and dusts off his palms. "Why Varric," he quips, "I'm flattered, but you're not really my type."

“I could only be so lucky,” Varric replies without missing a beat, punctuating his comment with a melodramatic sigh and a quick grin. "But no," his smile fades. "I suspect your type is a bit taller. And... grayer." He tucks the bottle up under one arm, essentially holding it hostage.

For a moment, Dorian is silent. Warning bells ring in his mind. Danger here, if he does not tread carefully.

Unfazed, Varric continues before Dorian can formulate a reply. "I assure you, this is a purely platonic offer. Come on, we'll find a spot a bit quieter than Herald’s Rest. I have a deck of cards, if you'd care to play a hand or two."

Dorian regards the dwarf for a moment. Varric may play the jovial clown, but it's obvious to anyone who spends more than a few moments in his company that the storyteller is more shrewd than he lets on. What is his game here?

Games and ploys again. It’s almost like home. Well, Dorian is fully capable of dancing to this tune, too. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he keeps his smile firmly in place. "But of course. I do hope the stakes are at least moderately interesting, though."

Varric snorts as he turns to lead the way out of the cellars. "That all depends on how much you’re willing to lose, Sparkler.”

 

* * *

 

 

Skyhold seems large, until one realizes just how many people are packed into the castle. But there are still places to find a small pocket of privacy, rooms half in disrepair and cordoned off from any visiting lordlings or idle recruits.

They settle for a small tower room that miraculously boasts an intact ceiling and four walls, even if the door doesn’t quite latch. Skyhold’s renovations haven’t quite reached this wing yet. The single window is broken, the last of the late afternoon sunlight slanting dimly through the shattered holes. The only pieces of furniture are a small, wobbly table and three warped chairs. Once, it seems there had been a bed, but it’s little more than a pile of rotted and broken wood in the corner. It is painfully, appallingly rustic, but it is a bit of space they can briefly call their own. At least it is not nearly as drafty as half the rooms in the keep.

With a spark of magic, Dorian lights a fat pillar candle he retrieved along their way, setting it on one of the chairs he’s pulled aside from the table. Varric uncorks the wine bottle expertly with a belt knife, pouring a generous portion into two mugs he'd filched from the kitchen storeroom as they passed. It is far from perfect glassware for the vintage, but it will have to do.

Wary, Dorian waits for Varric to broach the topic he wants so desperately to discuss. But instead, the dwarf takes a sip of wine and begins to shuffle the cards. The silence hangs heavy while Varric deals out the hands.

"Do you know what writers do most often?" the dwarf begins as he places a coin in the center of the table and picks up his first hand.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, collecting his own cards and adding his own ante. "Write?"

Varric shakes his head, discarding a card and drawing from the center stack. "We watch, we observe people. I've learned a lot about reading people in my day."

"Oh?" Dorian reveals a pair, lays it face up, and draws. He does not say more, still waiting to see the dwarf's true game. He swirls the wine in the cheap tin mug, taking a sip. Warm, oaky and floral, with a spicy tang at the finish. Excellent vintage. It’s been a while since he had something this good. The swill they serve in what passes for Skyhold’s tavern is only barely drinkable.

"Most people are easy to figure out," Varric continues as he plays his next hand. "Bards and such are much harder, of course. The Spymaster is practically impossible to read, when she puts her mind to it. The Ambassador is nearly as good. Next, there's you, when you bother to play the game."

"Thank you, I suppose," Dorian responds carefully, picking up a card.

“Well, unfortunately for you, the Inquisitor is about as subtle as a bronto with indigestion,” Varric responds lightly. “Adaar is many things, and a lot of them good, but inconspicuous and deceptive are not on that list.” He watches Dorian with a meaningful, weighted gaze, his words heavy with implication.

Tiptoeing around the accusations, veiled comments dancing around the true subject. This is far too much like home. Dorian sighs, suddenly tiring of the game already. He adds a coin to the pile as he reveals another pair, then takes another sip of wine. Not quite as delicious now, tainted by his weariness. “We play enough games outside the Inquisition’s circle,” Dorian says. “May I ask that you simply speak plainly?” It is blunt. The question would be an unforgivable gaffe in Val Royeaux’s Great Game, or the machinations of Tevinter society. It is far more frank than Dorian’s usual sarcastic banter, but the dwarf treads too close to old judgments that raise his hackles and prick his pride.

Varric regards him for a moment, then sets his cards aside and finishes his mug of wine in one swallow. “All right. I’ll be direct. I’m worried about the Inquisitor. The man is my friend, and the damn fool is so obviously smitten that even Sera is starting to catch on. But I don’t know what you’re playing at, and that concerns me. He’s a friend, but he’s also someone beginning to amass a vast amount of power.”

Anger flares suddenly. Dorian is surprised to discover that he’s offended Varric suspects him of playing such mind games. Gossip normally does not bother him. It can’t, or he’d be driven mad, considering that rumors seem to cling to him like carrion birds. Dorian has heard it all too often since joining the Inquisition. A mage from Tevinter will never really be accepted, always suspected of harboring ulterior motives. And in truth, he cares little what the rabble thinks, but such words sting more coming from a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Coming from a man he’s trusted to watch his back, one whom he has defended in battle.

His reply is curt. “Perhaps such things are none of your business.”

“Dorian,” Varric’s voice is weighted with a gentle warning. “You’re no fool. You know as well as I do that _anything_ regarding the Inquisitor is everybody’s business.”

Perhaps Dorian wouldn’t have bristled so much at the comment if it didn’t echo his own worries, but his first response is defensive anger. He tosses his cards on the table and pushes his chair back, prepared to leave before it gets ugly, before he says something he may regret later.

Varric sighs. “Wait. Just hear me out, please?” Dorian pauses, and the dwarf continues. “The last time I played sidekick to a hero that fell in love, Kirkwall ended up ass-deep in invading Qunari.”

Love. The word stings, a sharp needle in his heart. The dwarf has little to fear about that, Dorian wants to say. This is not love, cannot be, won’t be.

But the words stick in his throat, as if saying them aloud makes them true, cuts off any possibility. It’s a startling realization, that perhaps he hasn’t quite yet given up all hope for himself.

Varric pours himself more wine, takes a sip and meets Dorian’s eyes directly. It’s not really a challenge, but it is an open, frank stare. “Hawke would have fought all of Par Vollen for Isabela’s sake, and considered the battle worth the cost.”

Dorian finds his tongue, throws up his comfortable walls of sarcasm. “I’m sure Tevinter would be all too happy to send the Qunari her way, if she still wishes to oblige.”

Varric barks a laugh. But as his chuckle dies out, he regards Dorian thoughtfully for a moment, then continues. “It was worth it, for Hawke, I suppose. Love can make you strong, sometimes. It gave her something to fight for, after her family was gone. But it also got us into a hell of a lot of trouble.” He gives up on the game, pushes his cards away, and nudges the coins toward Dorian. “And right now, I’m still not sure which you are, strength or trouble. You can understand my concern, right?” His lips curl into a lopsided smirk, his tone wry. “You did ask for honesty, Sparkler.”

The words deflate some of Dorian’s indignation. He sighs wearily and settles back into his chair. “I did.” But he hadn’t promised frankness in return, and he finds himself reluctant to assuage the dwarf’s fears.

Why is that?

A silly question. He knows why. It would mean admitting his own vulnerabilities, of course, something he’d long ago learned is utter foolishness. Weaknesses turn to weapons in the wrong hands.

So instead he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as he sips his wine, and asks a question that neither confirms or denies the dwarf’s accusations. “What exactly do you fear?”

Varric sighs again, wearily. “I don’t know. If it comes down to it, will he choose you over the greater good? Or listen to your advice over that of his advisors? You’re the scion of a powerful family in Tevinter, and that can be dangerous.”

“ _Disowned_ son of a powerful family,” Dorian points out. “Outcast pariah and all that. Very dramatic, I’ll admit, but not particularly threatening.”

“You think that won’t change, if all of this _doesn’t_ go to shit and we actually do end up saving the world? You help to close the breach, to defeat the ancient darkspawn giving Tevinter a bad name, and you think they won’t change their tune in a heartbeat?”

Silence. Dorian has never thought that far ahead, really. His first instinct is to reject the idea outright. Why would he want to go back to that? To the mind games, the deceit, the society that rejects him so fiercely?

But no. Tevinter is his home, for good or ill. And there is so much potential there. Potential that could be harnessed by a returning war hero, perhaps? The thought is unsettling, but something to explore later.

Varric is watching him with a shrewd expression that slowly shifts to bemused wonder. “You really hadn’t thought about that?”

“I… no.” Dorian mentally chides himself for letting his thoughts show on his face. A rookie mistake. He’s spent too long in Kashek’s straightforward company, apparently, to forget old habits so easily.

“Hmm.”

An awkward silence falls. Dorian gathers the coins from the last hand and sets his cards on the stack. “Deal again?”

Varric nods, still thoughtful. As he shuffles the cards, he asks gently, “So what are you going to do about the Inquisitor?”

The anger is gone now, having run its course. All he feels now is simple wariness. Dorian raises an eyebrow and twists his lips into a wry grin. “Is this the part where the concerned father asks me what my intentions are regarding his daughter?”

The dwarf chuckles and deals out the cards again. “If you want to call it that. In keeping with this whole spirit of bluntness… Look, we both know how single-minded Adaar can be. He’s quite obviously set his sights, and the only thing that will deter him is if you tell him you’re not interested. Which it seems you haven’t. But you also haven’t told him yes. So he’s going to stubbornly keep at it until one or the other happens. You know how he gets once he sets his mind to something. Remember the time he found a spider in the war room?”

Dorian smiles fondly at the memory. “It _was_ an awfully big spider. I remember; how could I forget? He set Helisma and the mages to work immediately, devising a way to repel arachnids. It took us a solid week to concoct those candles.” Doubtless Kashek would have placed those candles in every room of Skyhold, if the healers didn’t need to gather spider-silk to treat wounds. So the Inquisitor placed them in the war room and his tower, leaving the rest of the castle alone. Dorian can’t help but grin at the memory of presenting Kashek with the first batch. The look of simple gratitude and relief on Kashek’s face had been worth the days of messy and occasionally unpleasant experimentation.

“Huh.” Varric’s voice is thoughtful, and Dorian looks up to realize he’d let his emotions show again. Kaffas, how has he gotten so bad at deceit so quickly? Maybe it is just the disarming demeanor of this particular dwarf. He does seem to befriend just about everyone. Well, except the Seeker, of course.

Varric smiles, more warmly now, and he nods as if Dorian has passed some sort of inspection. “Maybe you’re not half-bad after all, Sparkler.”

“Well, don’t go spreading that about,” Dorian quips in mock indignation. “I do have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

The dwarf laughs. “I’ll make sure not to.”

The conversation lapses again while they play their hands and place their bets.

“You know,” Dorian says after a few moments. “You are rather shrewd, for such a jovial fellow. You’d have done quite well in Tevinter, I think.”

“Funny, Mae says the same thing,” Varric responds. “But from what I’ve heard and seen, she’s probably the only one there I’d be able to stomach the company of.” He pauses for a moment, weighing the words before he says them. “Maybe you, but we’ll see. I don’t often care to spend time with people that hurt my friends. It’s a fatal character flaw, unfortunately.”

The unspoken question hangs in the air, a reminder that Dorian never really answered Varric’s last inquiry.

Perhaps it is time to stop dancing around the topic. The dwarf obviously won’t let it rest.

Dorian sighs and takes a long, fortifying sip of wine, feeling the warmth seep pleasantly through his veins. So hard to speak simple truth. “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, and unfortunately that is as honest an answer as you can have from me,” he says. “But whether you believe me or not, my intent has never been to use the Inquisitor to gather power to myself. If I wanted power, there are easier and far more pleasant ways to take it than throwing myself in front of hundreds of demons, Red Templars, and Venatori.”

Varric laughs again. “Well, you’ve got me there,” he admits. He plays another hand, adds a new coin to the center of the table.

The reminder of the dwarf’s connection to Maevaris brings up an interesting thought. Mae likes Varric, and even gave Dorian a letter for her cousin-in-law when he confided in her that he intended to seek Alexius in Ferelden. He'd imagined sending it onward via messenger when he reached Redcliffe, never thinking he'd run into Varric personally.

“I’m curious, though,” Dorian asks as he draws again. “What did your dear cousin-in-law tell you about me, to make you so suspicious?”

Varric snorts. “It’s not Mae that makes me suspicious,” he replies. “Kirkwall’s done a pretty good job of that on its own. But to answer your question, she mentioned I could trust you.”

“And you don’t believe her?”

“Oh, no, I do. She mentioned it in the letter you delivered to me, with both the wax seal and magical ward unbroken, which kind of reinforces that point. Besides, Mae is reliable, and a good judge of character. She actually encouraged me to persuade you to join us, not that it was needed.”

His words startle Dorian. “What?”

“I told you, I’m good at reading people,” Varric grins, discarding and drawing a card. “You’re harder than some, but you have a habit of letting your game face drop around Kashek. Despite the gossip, I never really thought you were trying to weasel your way up to the top. Plus, the way you smiled when you talked about the spider? I know that smile. I’ve seen it on Isabela’s face when she complains about Hawke hogging the blankets.”

“What?” Dorian repeats, incredulous and a little angry. “Then what was the point of all the implications, the games?”

“I thought maybe you might need a little nudge to figure things out, maybe a friendly face to talk to, help you sort yourself out.” The dwarf shrugs, takes a gulp of wine, and lays out a set of cards.

“And veiled accusations seemed the best way to befriend me?” Dorian’s response drips with sarcasm, but it puzzles him.

“If I came to you offering a sympathetic ear, would you have trusted me?”

“I-- well, no.”

“There you go. I figured poking you might get more of a response. And it worked, didn’t it? I didn’t _think_ you were manipulating the Inquisitor, but I’ve been wrong before. Had to be sure, you know. Now I am.” He shrugs again.

For a few moments, Dorian just stares at the dwarf, a little in awe. As it sinks in how fully he’s been played, Dorian is surprised to find a slow grin creeping across his face rather than anger. He raises his mug in a salute. “Well, masterfully done, I suppose. Truly, you may have missed your calling as a conniving noble.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Varric grumbles cheerfully. He points down at the table. “Now are you going to play, or are you just going to sit on those cards?”

No wonder Mae is fond of her cousin-in-law. Dorian’s grin widens as he folds this hand and pushes the coins toward Varric. Perhaps it may not be a complete mistake to make a friend here.

“Let’s play. Deal again.”

 


End file.
